


Don't Feed Ducks Bread

by and_the_one_we_live_in_now



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (there's not many), CWs in notes, Canon Compliant, Communication, Ducks, Feelings, M/M, Post-Canon, can be platonic, can be romantic, don't feed ducks bread!!, quoiromantic, relationship anarchy, relationship modeling, unfinished work, what's the difference? who knows? not me!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26294302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_the_one_we_live_in_now/pseuds/and_the_one_we_live_in_now
Summary: in which Aziraphale and Crowley discuss subjects including, but not limited to: Spider-Man, the cardiovascular systems of ducks, and what comes next.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Don't Feed Ducks Bread

**Author's Note:**

> this is more a chunk of conversation I found buried in my drafts than a story with a coherent ending, but I love it as it is, so onto AO3 it goes! it's so fun to write their dialogue, holy cow
> 
> they briefly allude to Heaven and Hell being shitty and out to get them, but other than that I can't think of any content warnings besides mentions of food. also AAAA DON'T FEED DUCKS BREAD, I wrote this before I knew it was bad for them, don't do it, aaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> also, Crowley's thoughts on duck feet are, if I remember correctly (it's been a while, I might not), a reference to onnenlintu's excellent Kasvatus Series! shoutout to any Minnions reading this; I highly recommend you check their works out!
> 
> also also: so many thanks to anyone who donated to my friend's upcoming top surgery; he was able to raise enough to cover the rest of the surgery fees! <3

“Y’think ducks can get heart attacks?”

_Splash!_

“I would expect that to be the case? They do have hearts, after all.”

_Splash! Quack!_

“Think they’ll get sick, bein’ fed twice in one day? Gobblin’ up all your fancy bread stuff?”

_Splash!_

“It’s called _pain d'épice_ , and considering how many people pass through this park on a daily basis, I doubt our repeat appearance will cause any issues. I hope.”

It was fairly late in the evening on the Monday after the world didn’t end, and Aziraphale and Crowley had now been celebrating the aforementioned lack of world-ending and their subsequent escape from the forces of Heaven and Hell for nearly 30 consecutive hours. An afternoon spent dining at the Ritz had turned into an evening spent drinking at the newly-restored bookshop, followed by both angel and demon nodding off on Aziraphale’s couch -- the first sleep for Crowley in nearly a week, and the first for Aziraphale since the eighteenth century. The following morning saw the two enjoying a groggy but pleasant brunch at a nearby café, after which they fed the local ducks and watched movies at the nearest theater until their eyes seemed about to fall out. Aziraphale then made good on his promise of a picnic from a few decades prior, the remains of which he and Crowley were now throwing to the still-interested birds.

“I must say, I’m quite fond of them. Ducks, that is. Very quaint little creatures.”

“Make funny sounds,” Crowley agreed, watching Aziraphale toss another chunk of bread. “And I like how fast their feet go underwater.”

There was a long, comfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional splash or ruffling of feathers.

“‘Zis our life now?” Crowley grinned. “Feeding ducks all day and night?”

Another silence. Crowley shifted to a new position on the blanket, lying flat on his stomach with his elbows propping him up, head turned to watch Aziraphale sitting next to him. Aziraphale lowered his hands into his lap, miracling the rest of the bread away. “I suppose I don’t really know what life will be like from here on,” the angel said, slowly, eyes fixed straight ahead. “We do both have a lot more time on our hands now, it seems.”

“‘S wonderful, innit?” Crowley replied, voice a bit quieter now. “No more ‘Crowley, curse this.’ ‘Crowley, damn that.’ ‘Crowley, I’m about to get myself discorporated and I need you to come save me.’”

There, that got the angel to look over, to melt the strange expression he had been wearing into something more comfortable. “Funny, I can’t recall ever saying that. You just happen to have rather fortuitous timing.”

“Got a spidey sense for it, angel,” Crowley smirked, shifting his weight to one arm to tap his temple with the other.

“A-- a what?”

“A spidey-- oh come onnnn, don’t tell me you’ve never seen a Spider-Man movie?! Haven’t even-- surely you’ve got some comic books lying around in that bookshop of yours?”

“I can’t say I do.”

“Phhhhhh, we’re taking you to the next Spider-Man movie. To have been on Earth for the entire existence of Spider-Man and never have heard of spidey sense? It’s disgraceful, that’s what it is.”

“. . . the next ‘spider man’ movie.”

“Yep.”

“Together.”

“Mmmmmnnnyeah, I figured, I mean unless-- unless you’d rather go by yourself, y’know, that’s perfectly fine with me, I’m not--”

“--together would be nice, Crowley.”

Aziraphale looked down at his empty hands, laced tightly together in his lap. He wished he hadn’t disposed of the bread quite as quickly; he so wanted something to throw right now.

“It’s funny, I-- I mean normally I’m quite busy with the bookshop, and I’m sure that’ll keep me quite occupied most of the time, and there are so many nice little bakeries around, but now that I’m considering it, I mean truly conside-- what? What’s that face for?”

Crowley’s face had gone all wrong, all tight lips and turned head and loud silence. It was far, far too reminiscent of his face two nights ago at the bus stop, when he had thought the bookshop still burnt down. “Angel,” he began, carefully, too carefully. “You’re not planning to stay in London, are you?”

What . . . what kind of a question was that? “Of course I’m planning to stay in London!” Aziraphale twisted to more fully face Crowley. “Everything I have is here! I’ve lived here for centuries, I can’t-- I’m not-- why would you even ask that!”

Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley’s face could have gotten worse, but it had. From what he could make out in the half-light, _fear_ had worked itself into the jumble of emotions battling for his expression. “‘S just . . . angel, you realize . . . I don’t think they’ll leave you alone forever. Heaven, that is. We bought ourselves a lot of time, but ‘s not like they’re gonna die off. ‘Ll be back eventually, I’d expect. And you’ll be safer if you’re not living at your current address.”

“You-- why--” Aziraphale sputtered. “What about you? If you’re so concerned about my safety, where are you off to? Hell isn’t going to” -- the anger drained from his voice alongside the color from his face -- “Hell isn’t going to be any kinder to you, Crowley.”

“I-- well . . .” _Bless it._ Crowley had known this conversation would happen, known it had to happen, but he had sure imagined it getting off to a better start than this. “I . . . dunno. I dunno. Maybe I’ll sod off to Cambridge or Manchester. Nowhere far. ‘F you’re staying in London, I can . . . pop in every now an’ again, make sure Heaven hasn’t carted you off.” _Bless it all._

Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it, paused, opened it again, closed it again. Looked away from Crowley, glanced back, resumed not-looking. Then: “I never said I was staying in London,” Aziraphale huffily replied, surprising a barking laugh out of Crowley.

“You literally _just_ said you’re staying in London. _Just_ said it.”

“Yes, well . . . you make a good point, about moving.” He risked another glance at Crowley. “Oh, stop it with that face, I can admit I might be wrong sometimes, you know. I suppose . . . I suppose my bookshop could be reopened in a new town, one with fewer prying customers, and if visits to London are on the table, there’s no saying I couldn’t stop by the bakeries every now and again. There are a few restaurants in Manchester I’ve been meaning to frequent. . . .”

“Ayyy, that’s th’ spirit!” Crowley reached out to nudge Aziraphale’s elbow and continued, more quietly: “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, angel.”

Aziraphale straightened his jacket. “Mmm. Perhaps a change of scenery will be good for me.” He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly in the general direction of the water. “So, um, when did you say you’ll be leaving?”

“Oh, uh, don’t think I said a time, really. Dunno. . . . You said you’re going to Manchester?”

“Possibly. Did you say you were considering Manchester?”

“Mmm. Good nightlife, Manchester. I could live there.”

“I suppose I could too.”

“Maybe I’ll move to Manchester.”

“Likewise.”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley picked at the grass.

Aziraphale smoothed out the blanket.

Crowley rolled onto his side, looking up at Aziraphale. “Angel, just to clarify, ‘re we only picking Manchester ‘cause the other one’s picking Manchester? ‘Cause if that’s the case, maybe we should back up and go with someplace that I didn’t pull out of my arse two minutes ago.”

Aziraphale’s attempt to shoot a reproachful look at Crowley failed miserably, and within moments both angel and demon found themselves choking back laughter. “Imagine us a decade from now,” Crowley went on, shifting back onto his stomach. “ _‘I can’t say I’m so fond of Manchester.’_ ‘I hate the place.’ _‘Well then why ever did you come here?’_ ‘I dunno, why’d _you_ come here?!’” The demon shook his head, grinning, as Aziraphale surrendered to a fit of giggles. “Blessed idiots, the both of us.”

As Aziraphale’s laughter petered out, the gently noisy quiet of a summer’s evening took over once more. The sun had thoroughly set by now, and the two of them were the only humans or human-adjacent creatures in their corner of the park. Thanks to the light pollution, there were few stars to be seen, but also thanks to the light pollution, the pair could make out each other’s faces decently well despite the increasingly nighttime ambiance. Aziraphale’s face, Crowley noted, was having a peculiarly difficult time with not-looking-devastated for someone who had been laughing genuinely not sixty seconds before. He frowned.

“What’d you start saying a minute ago, angel? ‘Fore I cut you off?”

Aziraphale sighed, manifesting another piece of bread and hurling it at the rather startled ducks. “Oh, it’s silly, I-- well, I was just thinking how much time we’ll both have now, and how strange it’s going to be, not taking orders from Heaven anymore, and . . . well it’s all rather ridiculous, considering that they did try to kill me, and kill everyone, and I shouldn’t be-- I’m sorry, I--” Aziraphale suddenly twisted away, reaching behind him for the picnic basket (which Crowley was pretty sure they’d made disappear half an hour ago) and rummaging through it (presumably for some important item Crowley was pretty sure didn’t exist).

“Hey, angel . . .” Crowley began, pushing himself up into a sitting position. Aziraphale continued rummaging. “Hey--” More rummaging. Crowley scooched back until he was parallel with the picnic basket. Aziraphale ducked his head. “C’mon, angel, ’s okay. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” Aziraphale paused, his head still bowed. “We can talk about feelings, ‘s alright.” 

Aziraphale looked up at that, and his eyes, sparkling in the dim light, were fixed in a piercing stare. “When have we _ever_ talked about feelings, Crowley,” he managed, his voice high and weak.

“Pht-- mnh-- loads of times,” Crowley sputtered, taken aback on many levels. “We-- y’know--”

“--asking me if I’m asleep when I’m clearly crying and then not saying anything more doesn’t count as talking about feelings!”

“I thought maybe you were snoring funny! And I didn’t think you wanted to talk about the bookshop, and I di-- and we needed to sleep for our busy morning of Escaping Death Part Two the next day--”

“--well I didn’t sleep--”

“--well neither did I but . . . but surely we’ve . . . I mean there’s all those times when we--”

“--drunkenly complaining about our respective bosses doesn’t count either, I’m afraid.”

“Mmn . . . talked a bit on the wall of Eden. ‘Bout feelings. Bein’ afraid we did th’ wrong things.”

“. . . I suppose so. Yes.”

Aziraphale seemed a bit more composed now, and shifted from his awkward kneeling beside the picnic basket to a comfortable criss-cross applesauce, facing Crowley. Crowley, meanwhile, was blinking. Always a weird experience, blinking.

“‘M . . . sorry.”

“What was that?” asked Aziraphale, who had been halfway through blowing his nose with a tissue he had miracled from the basket.

“‘M sorry, angel. For not talking about feelings much before. Know I’ve had a lot of ‘em, n’ I’d expect you have too. Do too.”

“Crowley . . .” came the reply, in that voice so filled with everything, and Crowley pulled his knees up close to him, and fixed his gaze on the picnic blanket, and kept going.

“I mean, six _thousand_ years, and I never even . . . an’ I knew neither ’f us had anybody else to . . . what kind of--”

A strangled noise. Crowley looked up, and Aziraphale was looking at him, and he was looking at Aziraphale, and was the angel crying? and he couldn’t see anything with these blasted sunglasses and he took them off and he _was_ crying and now they were both crying and he put a clumsy hand on Aziraphale’s knee and Aziraphale put a shaking hand on Crowley’s hand and the two of them made eye contact and smiled and laughed and cried and laughed and cried for a few minutes that felt like at _least_ three thousand years.

Aziraphale produced handfuls of tissues from the picnic basket and passed half to Crowley, who produced a honk that startled the ducks before murmuring a garbled “thanks.” A few more minutes passed, filled with sniffles and glances and the occasional sob or giggle, before Crowley spoke. “Let’s-- let’s talk ‘bout feelings more now, angel. Now like,” (he waved a hand about vaguely) “future now, well an’ also now now, an’ just . . . let’s talk about feelings more.”

Aziraphale, while still looking as if he were ready to resume sobbing at any moment, burst into a radiant smile. “Very much agreed, Crowley.”


End file.
